


Idle Hands

by ValueTurtle



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValueTurtle/pseuds/ValueTurtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their marriage was based on mistrust and fear. Away from King's Landing, safe in Winterfell, there might be a chance for Sansa and Tyrion to forge some small happiness out of their shared history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

When she first brings him back to the shell of Winterfell as her guest-slash-hostage, Tyrion finds himself strangely idle.

 

It's not that he's confined to his rooms – no, he's allowed to wander as he wills, accompanied, constantly, by the stout guard called Oak and a rather undernourished squire who reminds him, with his half-swallowed words, of Podrick. It's not for a lack of work to be done, for there is plenty, at least, if one is an engineer, or a steward, or even a strong man who can take instruction (but, his height aside, Tyrion has never flourished under middle-management). His idleness comes from being bereft of grand plans, a void of ambition – from no one trusting the only Lannister in the North.

 

He spends his time observing the rebuilding process, hands clasped behind his back, Oak glowering down at him. In the kitchens, young girls are kept busy preserving the first tentative harvests in honey and salt and lard, or they spend their hours sewing banners to replace those destroyed during the war. On the days when the light is good in the just-finished hall a whole host of women will embroider and knit and gossip with children underfoot, their fat hands tangling in the brightly coloured wool.

 

In the yard, he watches young lads, puffed with pride, try on too-big armour and play at fighting; their enthusiasm is bittersweet, and he quickly moves on.

 

Every night Lady Stark breaks bread with him, sitting at the table that is only a month old. Their meals are simple, hearty – no overwrought confections, or dishes with greasy richness, just soups, plain roasts and pies. For someone who devoted large swaths of his life to revelling in sensory abundance, Tyrion is pleasantly surprised how much he enjoys Winterfell's humble offerings. Sansa, on the other hand, picks at her food, and it is her barely-touched plate that leads him to watching her.

 

He notices that she's always tired, always thinking, her pretty face wearing the strain of rebuilding her home in the hardness of her mouth, and the dark circles around her eyes. Largely silent, when prompted about her day she'll start – breaking free from some contemplation of the glasshouse, or the draining of the crypts, he assumes – and politely avoid answering in detail.

 

At first, Tyrion ascribes her faint responses to their stilted relationship, to her discomfort at being in his presence. Then, a few weeks later, when he is sunning himself in the courtyard opposite the burnt remains of the library, he spies Sansa exiting the ruins, covered in soot and muck, but smiling a secretive smile he's never seen before. That night, when he carefully asks her what occupied her day, she says, “I did some light reading, my lord,” and takes a dainty sip of watered wine. 

 

Some light reading. In any other setting, at any other time, Tyrion might have had a thousand other things more important than mulling over her response. At Casterly Rock he had an overstuffed library, and good wine and whores. In King's Landing he had intrigue, danger. During his travels abroad there had been long stretches of boredom, but those were garnished with the need to stay alive, and his own masochistic obsession with his father, with Shae and Tysha – even prodding a gaping wound provides entertainment, of a sort. But here, in the north, in a wreck of a keep, with no power plays or whispers or dragons, there's only his courteous wife and her mild duplicity. He makes some discrete enquiries, and is shocked at the report Not-Podrick gives.

 

The reason, he discovers, that Sansa spent an afternoon rummaging around a structurally unsound building was to find a long-lost book on Winterfell's plumbing. Apparently, in addition to risking her life for the written word, she frequently harasses the gardener with plans for the roses, marching down to the green, handmaids in tow, sketches rolled under her arm. She's led several expeditions into the Wolfswood with the carpenter, the huntsman, the master of hawks, and she's inspected the quality of the trees and the level of game. Every day, Sansa and the head builder have lunch; rumour has it the poor man has nearly gone bald from the stress of meeting with a girl of seventeen. The cook, when questioned, refuses to discuss Lady Stark, but a scullery maid confirms that a strict weekly inventory is done at the lady's request. Finally, Sansa is solely responsible for keeping the household accounts in balance.

 

Tyrion doesn't hear the last one from Not-Podrick; his squire is rather good at pestering the small-folk until they give in, exasperatedly, but is ill suited for the more sophisticated forms of espionage. Instead, concerned at the burden Sansa is placing on her young shoulders, he convinces Oak to take him to the lady's chambers after dinner, hoping that privacy will lend an openness to the discussion. His wife must think him someone else, for she calls for him to enter from the other side of the door. When he walks into the room, he sees that she's unspooled; it's the only word for how Sansa has unwound, slumped as she is at her reading desk, her hair – so tightly coiled during the day – now undone and snarling around her shoulders. There's ink on her fingers, and a smudge on her nose, and Tyrion has never been more charmed.

 

She blinks and sits up straighter when she sees him. Her expression, formerly clear from exhaustion, closes into wary blankness. 'My lord,' Sansa says, the words not cool enough to cause insult but only just, 'what brings you to my chamber at this hour?'

 

He flashes her a smile, which she'll likely interpret as a grimace, the scar tissue working against him as usual. Waddling over to where she sits, he looks over at the book in front of her. There are few things Tyrion excels at nearly as much as reading, and upside down text is no deterrent here; it only takes the briefest of glances to see columns of numbers and lists, and it is now apparent why she is wearing away.

 

Eyes flicking back up to her face, he says, 'It's Tyrion, my lady, or do you give all your prisoners titles?'

 

Sansa bristles, and her hand sweeps up to shut the cover of the ledger. Too late, of course, but he notes the fact she does not want him to know what she is doing and logs it away in his mind.

 

'You're not a prisoner. You're a -,'

 

'- guest, yes, I know,' he takes a seat without her permission. Her lips thin in irritation, and he wonders if she realises she is doing it, and if she cares. 'If I may, I would like to offer an observation.'

 

She frowns, but they lived together for months before they separated; she is more than aware of his tenacity. 'Very well.'

 

'I'm most impressed with the restoration of Winterfell. When I arrived, it was little more than walls and half-destroyed buildings. Now it boasts a fully repaired hall, living quarters, and rapidly refilling stores,' he pauses and rotates the inkwell on her desk, weighing his words. 'The only issue – and please, this is only the opinion of one man, half a man, really – is that as much as you might like it to be so, my lady, you can not fix Winterfell by yourself.'

 

'I don't know what you're talking about, my lord,' she says promptly, the tone the one he remembers from King's Landing, from questions about Joffrey and her family. He's hurt – more than he anticipates, or would care to admit - that she feels the need to slip into that persona again. 'I am only doing my duty as the Lady of Winterfell.'

 

'Sansa,' Tyrion says, softly. He watches tired blue eyes dart across his face, questioning the sincerity of his gentle tone. It makes him terribly sad. 'No one expects the Lady of Winterfell to personally ride out into the forest to count deer. Your task is not to research centuries old plumbing, or where to place the winter roses.' She is still as stone, untouched by his words. There are so many lines of argument he can take – it's an immense job, a young girl should not have to accomplish it herself, she deserves to let someone else take over – but none of them will work, not with her. 'The King – or Queen – uses a Hand for a reason, my lady. And even Ned Stark had Catelyn Tully by his side to aide him in his duties.'

 

It is all he can say. He stands and walks back towards the door, berating himself for trying to help when no one wants it. Just as he reaches for the handle, he hears her say, 'Yes, but my father trusted my mother. Ned Stark had Catelyn Tully; _I've_ Tyrion Lannister.'

 

He exits, unable to look back and see her face full of scorn.

 

Tyrion is, to say the very least, quite nonplussed when Oak informs him, tersely as always, that Lady Stark has ordered him to look after the ravens.

 


	2. Chapter Two

She's not the Queen. She's just Sansa, waiting.

 

They've started writing songs about her – _The Queen of Summer_ – and she finds it endearing ( _ingratiating_ ) and sweet ( _sickly_ ) and deeply flawed ( _it is_ ). It's not summer, for a start: it's barely spring. The north has managed its first harvest, hard won against the reluctantly thawing weather, and already her people want to skip forward, to imagine a future that is not certain. Sansa knows that summer will only arrive with time, work, and further hardship; it cannot be dreamt, or conjured in a softly sung ballad.

 

There are young maids in Winterfell, ones she has taken from the remains of great houses and farmhouses alike, and it is nigh unto torture to watch them from the high table as they drink in the songs the troubadour plays of an evening. Every enthralled expression is hers; every flustered whisper comes from the lips of Jeyne Poole. Her hands, on occasion, clench in her lap, fingers twisted in fine silk and wool. It's a preventative, she's found, for otherwise she might shake them violently, might slap their cheeks until tears spring in their soft, doe-eyes. It would be less painful, a part of her thinks, to do this now and cause some small pain in order to tear away the gauze these stories wrap around reality; the gauze that makes it unrecognisable, falsely padded.

 

She creates impotent fists under the table and toys with her food, instead.

 

They call her Queen in the North, too, and this title makes her sad, her heart tightening painfully at the thought of Robb. She's not the Queen; she's just Sansa, waiting. Waiting for Rickon to come of age and be returned from his rather mandatory fostering with Stannis. It's hard, now, to imagine what he will look like as a man grown. She thinks he might look more like Uncle Benjen than their father, slighter in build perhaps, and with a darker cast to his hair. Her memories of her youngest sibling are faded, frayed around the edges. She remembers a small, dirt-smeared face; sticky hands tugging at her skirts; a mortifying tantrum he'd had as they stood in the courtyard waiting for King Robert. Sometimes she gets tangled, thinking of some nonsense Bran said and attributing it to Rickon, and she will carefully unravel them, separate the strands and card them into distinct “Bran” and “Rickon” spools – she'll likely never see Bran again, not in person, and now those memories are precious and to be collected. Rickon will come home to Winterfell one day and she will know then how he smiles (tightly, she imagines, and not quite reaching his eyes) and the way he walks (head bowed, shoulders tensed, hand not straying far from the hilt of his sword). Until then, she waits.

 

There are some – her bannermen, the ones that are left – that whisper that she should be Queen of all of Westeros, and that is the worst of all. The idea makes a greasy brick of nausea settle in her stomach. She is _not_ the Queen, she is Sansa, who wakes at night, breathless and trembling, having dreamt of King's Landing, or of being at Joffrey's side. In these dreams she bears his children - all golden-haired, all full of sharp teeth and claws - as well as the marks of his beatings. She is in the Red Keep and the walls are made of clutching hands. She is drowning in Blackwater Bay as green fire consumes her, her mouth full of ash and seawater. She is held tight and safe in man's embrace, but he lowers his head to kiss her and his moist breath is foul, his face that of a hound's, snarling.

 

(Sometimes she is Alayne, and it is dark and silent. All she does is in those dreams is silently suffocate, her throat choked with mint leaves.)

 

She's not the Queen; she is Sansa, waiting for Daenerys Targaryen. She has vowed to burn every last White Walker with her dragons and, when she sweeps back south, Sansa will bend the knee and swear any oath of fealty required to spare the North from her terrible wrath. There were rumours that reached her, even in hiding, rumours of immense destruction and chaos and compassion; rumours of children spared and cities sacked; tales of the dragons, beacons of hope or of despair. For a time Sansa had believed the odds too far out of her favour. What use could a glittering queen full of righteous fury have with Lady Sansa, small and tarnished – the daughter of Eddard Stark, who committed treason against the house Targaryen? She'd found herself defeated by her male relatives and their predilection for causing rebellions, however well intentioned they may have been at the time.

 

And then she'd found her husband.

 

He'd been singed, dragonless and penned in by a well-armed Mountain Clan when her patrol came across him. The commotion when they walked through the walls of Winterfell had drawn her down to meet them, and she'd frozen, a hand stopped half-way to her mouth, when she'd seen her estranged husband. His eyes had met hers and he'd dipped into a mocking bow, as much as the bonds around his wrists and legs would allow. If he'd thought to infuriate her, he missed the mark: the action only emphasised his powerlessness. Besides, she'd thought rather wryly, who was she to be angered by false manners?

 

Her men had gagged him – and honestly, she could hardly blame them, given the sharpness of his tongue – and she asked for it to be removed. 'My dear Lady Stark,' he began, 'as courteous as ever.'

 

She tried to ignore the tone, dry, and the fact his voice was threaded through her memories of King's Landing. Instead, she focused on the captain of the guards and said, 'Have a room prepared for my husband. He will be wanting a bath, too, I expect.' And she'd walked briskly back into the keep before she allowed the slight tremors in her body to give away weakness.

 

It was not fear – at least, not only – that sent her heart tripping and her hands shaking: it was the breathless excitement of an opportunity, and the knowledge that she already knew how to take it. For a moment she pictured Petyr's face in her mind, cheeks flushed, lips wet, just as he was whenever he saw the connections that no one else could. It passed, and she screwed her eyes shut to block out the memory.

 

Sansa had, in a small and modestly appointed chamber, a man condemned by the people of Westeros as a kinslayer, a kingslayer, and a demon besides. He'd been tried and found guilty; he'd been spat on and damned. The peasants murmured that he was an ill omen, one who should be cut into pieces and burnt separately so he could not return to the living and continue his depravity. He was also, in the Queen's estimation, a valued servant of the realm, her true and loyal Hand who fought on dragon back to help reclaim her throne. He had reduced her enemies to dust and charred bones. More than that, he'd emptied keeps with just his words, saving her people from unnecessary death and destruction. Tyrion Lannister was as fine a currency to the Dragon Queen as the gold of Casterly Rock, and Sansa considered herself deep in debt.

 

He requested an audience on the second day of his stay. She refused. If it was petty (it was), Sansa did not care: the meeting between them could not be marred by her discomposure in the face of her former husband, who might be at her mercy but was still as dangerous as any man she'd met. She could not hope to spar with him – and she rather suspected there _would_ be sparring – if she felt she was merely play-acting a Lady, dressed in her mother's skirts. So, it was his fourth request she accepted, after she had made sure her plans (the rigid ones, the flexible ones, the ones she hoped never to use, and the ones for after all was done) were in order; when she looked in the mirror and saw some cold stranger that might pass as Sansa Stark.

 

His rooms were better than she'd expected, but still neutral; it was clean and had an airy window, but only just fell this side of “cell”, with its bare furnishings. He was in fresh clothing – Bran's tunic and leggings – and they fit poorly, bagging at the knee and stretching tight against his shoulders. Sansa was surprised at her pang of sympathy, but still decided she'd have a new set made for him; she'd spent too long herself in worn dressed and other's cast-offs not to give him such a small thing.

 

'You would speak, my lord?' Sansa asked, turning her mind back to the issue at hand. She seated herself and smoothed the silk of her dress against her knees. The action calmed her.

 

'Given the opportunity, I would never stop,' he said, and she frowned, looking up into his terrible face at the false (weak) humour she heard. It had occurred to her, of course, that Tyrion Lannister used jests and wit to deflect attacks as much as she did polite words, but never had the truth of it struck her so strongly as in that moment. 'Have you decided what you're to do with me? I confess: I've found myself rather bored with trials – the whole concept of justice, in fact – but for you, my dear, sweet wife, perhaps I can find some enthusiasm, if it is your will.' He ended with a sneer.

 

Sansa let no emotion show on her face – it was, these days, much easier than allowing her true feelings to show, or knowing which fake one to contrive. 'On what charges would I try you? I know of no crimes you've committed.'

 

He spun around, managing to keep the wine inside his glass but only just. 'If I'm not guilty of any crimes, then why am I being held prisoner? Surely not for the pleasure of my company – you made your distaste for it plain in King's Landing. Is imprisoning people without cause just an odd quirk that runs in your family, like big ears and the ability to curl one's tongue?'

 

Not for the first time, Sansa thought of how well Tyrion could bait people to anger: would that it were a trade; he'd make a mint. 'You are not imprisoned, my lord,' she told him with only slightly exaggerated patience. 'You are a guest of Winterfell.'

 

'Guests are allowed to leave, traditionally.'

 

'And a guests' safety is the responsibility of the host – or hostess. I cannot in good faith let you leave when there are White Walkers and Mountain Clans no more than a day's ride away in any direction.' Sansa pursed her lips, unhappy that her calm had slipped.

 

Tyrion looked at her, his gaze searching. 'There's more to this than you are letting on,' he told her, wagging a blunt finger in her direction. 'But what? Is it our marriage? I'll happily swear the truth of it, if it please you – I believe High Septons are somewhat thin on the ground, though, so an annulment may have to wait.'

 

'No,' she said, hoping her voice was not too sharp. Sansa hated the idea of giving away even the tiniest morsel of information, but Tyrion would never believe the lie that she wanted to remain as man and wife for the sake of some great love she held for him or other such nonsense. 'Currently, the only thing stopping the small-folk from tearing apart these walls to get to you is the fact you are my husband. They say,' she huffed out an exasperated breath, 'that you are a demon, and in visiting the North you have created chaos and disaster. You have soured milk and caused the dead to wander; you burn homes with your pet dragons and disfigure children in the womb.'

 

'I _have_ been busy,' he murmured, eyebrows raised. 'And yet we come back to that most intriguing of notions: Sansa Stark concerned for my safety. Please excuse me if I doubt its purity.' Tyrion ran a thumb around the edge of his goblet. He looked at her with more intensity than she expected, and she felt her cheeks grow hot. After a moment, his eyes widened and his mouth turned up with humour. 'Of course. Apologies, my lady.'

 

'Apologies for what, my lord?' Sansa asked, wary.

 

'For forgetting that you are the woman who survived my nephew. Who survived King's Landing. Survived Littlefinger, too, if the stories are true.' Tyrion made a face indicating how impressive that feat was. 'This,' he waved a hand, encompassing the small room, herself and Winterfell, 'is just the groundwork for negotiation between you and the Queen.' He broke into a grin when he noted her discomfort. 'Oh, very nicely played.'

 

She replied, stiffly: 'Thank you, my lord.'

 

'You're welcome,' his voice was warm, pleased. Sansa tried not to roll her eyes at the amusement he appeared to be having at her expense. 'It's been a time since I was last a hostage. Have the customs changed much, or will I be able to pick it up as I go along?'

 

Sansa stood, deciding she'd had enough of their conversation. 'Winterfell is open to you, but I ask that Ser Iven stay with you at all times. I shall find you a squire, as well.' She walked to the door, but turned around just before she left to add: 'It would be mutually beneficial for us if you remain in good health.'

 

Tyrion's grin only seemed to grow wider as he heard her subtle threat.


End file.
